Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales/The Mischievous Boy
THE MISCHIEVOUS BOY.
There once lived an old poet, a truly good and brave man. One evening, as he was seated alone in his room, a dreadful storm arose, the wind blew, and the rain fell from the heavens in torrents. But the old poet in his room felt quite warm and comfortable, as he sat by the stove, while the bright flames glowed, and the apples which were roasting hissed pleasantly.
“Those poor creatures who are out in the streets in this dreadful storm must be wet through,” he said to himself, sorrowfully, for he was a truly good poet.
“Oh, please let me in! I am so cold, and wet through!” exclaimed a soft, childish voice.
People heard the cry, and would have knocked at the door, but the rain fell in torrents, and the wind shook the windows so that no knocking could be heard.
“Poor little chap!” cried the poet, when he heard the voice, and, rising as he spoke, he went and opened the door.
There stood a little boy nearly naked, and with long, fair locks, from which the rain dripped.
The boy shivered with cold, and, indeed, if he had not found shelter, the poet thought he must have died.
“Poor child,” said the good man, taking him by the hand, “come in, and you will soon be warm here, and then you shall have some hot mulled wine and a roasted apple, for you are a pretty little boy.”
And this was quite true, for when he entered the house his eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and as the water dripped from his fair hair it fell into the most beautiful natural curls. He looked, indeed, like a little angel, although he was pale with cold and shivered like an aspen leaf.
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THE POET AND THE LITTLE BOY.
In one hand he held a splendid bow, but the rich colours of both the bow and arrows had been quite washed away by the wet.
The old poet again seated himself by the stove, on which the sweet mulled wine was being heated, and took the little boy on his knees, squeezed the water from his curls, and held the child’s hands in his own to warm them. After taking a little of the sweet mulled wine, and eating a roasted apple, the boy seemed revived, and his cheeks became quite rosy. But presently he surprised the good poet by slipping from his arms, and then dancing and skipping wildly about the room.
“You are a merry rogue,” said the poet. “What is your name?”
“I am called Love,” he replied; “don’t you know me? There lies my bow, and I know how to shoot it too! And, see, the storm is passing away, and there is the moon shining.”
“But the bow is spoilt,” said the poet.
“That would be a pity,” he said, as he took up the bow and examined it carefully. “Ha!” he exclaimed, “it is quite dry now; the string stretches properly. There has no harm happened to it. I will prove this,” he added, as he took an arrow from his quiver, laid it across the bow, drew the string, and shot the good old poet in the heart!
“Now, is my bow useless?” cried the boy, as he ran away quickly, and laughing heartily.
The wicked boy! How could he dare to shoot the good old poet, who had sheltered him in his warm room, and had been so kind in giving him the beautiful wine and the sweetest apple.
There lay the poet on the ground, and wept; he had really been struck to the heart, and he could only say, “Alas! what a mischievous youngster this Love is; I shall tell all the good children, both boys and girls, never to associate with him, for he is sure to play them some trick.”
So all the good children who have been warned, take care to have nothing to do with such a bad boy. But Love cheats them, he is so sly and cunning. As the students at the college pass by, he steps forward with a book under his arm, and looking so grave and respectable in his black clothes, that they have not the least idea who he is.
In fact, they take him for a fellow-student, and are soon seen walking with him, arm in arm. However, he contrives to shoot an arrow into their hearts when they least expect it.
And it is the same with the young ladies, when they are coming from the lectures, or from confirmation, or even from church, he manages to get near them.
Indeed, he is everywhere. At the theatre he sits in the great lustre-light and burns like a bright flame, so that people mistake him for a lamp, but afterwards they find him out.
He frequents the royal gardens and the public promenades. And, only fancy! once he positively shot his arrows into the hearts of our fathers and mothers. Just ask them, and hear what they will say.
Yes, this Love is a daring, wicked boy, and you must not associate with him, for he allows no one to escape a shot.
Just think, now, that once he even fired an arrow at our old grandmother, but it is a long time ago. The wound is quite healed, yet she will never forget it. Fie upon this wicked Love! However, we know now what a mischievous youngster he is.